


To Eat from the Tree

by AidaRonan



Series: Stucky 2019 Bingo Fills [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: (Except they're just students studying to eventually be priests), Alternate Universe - Priests, Artist Steve Rogers, Blasphemy, Blow Jobs, Come Swallowing, First Time Blow Jobs, Frottage, Gay Bucky Barnes, Gratuitous Biblical References, Hand Jobs, M/M, Sacrilege, Sex in a Church, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-11 21:54:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19935097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AidaRonan/pseuds/AidaRonan
Summary: There is a story they tell in Collinwood, NY. A story of two priests-in-training who fell off the path of righteousness and into each other.





	To Eat from the Tree

**Author's Note:**

  * For [betheflame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/betheflame/gifts).



> A fic to thank betheflame for donating to RAICES. Their prompt was "priest-in-training."
> 
> Also a fill for my "loss of virginity" square for Stucky Bingo.  
> __
> 
> Some historical notes: St. Paul's in this fic is based on a real preparatory seminary school that used to exist in Rochester, NY called St. Andrew's, as well as its sister seminary school known as St. Bernard's. Men in 1930s New York pursuing priesthood might have gone to preparatory seminary at St. Andrew's for at least two years, then onto actual seminary school at St. Bernard's. At least one semi-famous priest who served in WW2 took this path. 
> 
> The stringent rules Bucky and Steve face in this fic were very real. A source on St. Bernard's called the rules "strict and numerous." Designated times for talking, early lights-out times where the bathroom light was the only one left on, not being allowed in each others' rooms, no radio/mag subscriptions. These were real rules. 
> 
> The only real liberty I took was in making St. Paul's a boarding school. St. Andrew's was not, the Bishop who founded it a believer in family life as developmentally important to young would-be priests. 
> 
> As for their "uniforms," most pictures I could find of seminary students in the 30s were in shirts and ties, if not full suits. So here we are. 
> 
> Oh, and yes, there were cows.

There was a story they told sometimes in Collinwood, NY. Occasionally the same story circulated online, though much like the whisper game played around a campfire, the details were different every time. In Collinwood proper, a retelling was usually prompted by one thing—a drive past the old sprawling stone complex, its looming turrets and towers not unlike a medieval castle.

“You ever hear about those two priests?”

“They never became priests, dillweed, that’s the point of the story.”

“What are you two arguing about now?”

“So there were these two priests-”

“In training.”

A deep sigh. Fingers reached to turn down the volume on the stereo.

“So there were these two priests- _in-training_ , right? Back in the 30s.”

And so it began.

* * *

The lights at St. Paul’s Preparatory Seminary went off at precisely 9:30 p.m. The only thing any of the students there were meant to do past that hour was sleep or maybe pray. Bucky couldn’t find it in him to do either.

Father McKinney had prepared him for most of what he’d experience at St. Paul’s—the silent hours, the strict rules about having any of his fellow students in his room, no more radio serials or pulps. But he couldn’t prepare him for what it would be like to get on the bus in Brooklyn and end up somewhere like Collinwood.

After lights-out, it was like trying to sleep in a tomb. There was no sound filtering in from outside or neighboring rooms, no light shining in unless the moon was out. Everything was too quiet, too still.

He’d get used to it. The Church said he had to be there at least two years before he could move on to theological seminary, so he’d certainly have plenty of time.

Bucky stared up at the ceiling, his eyes able to make out the angular stone shape of the room and nothing more. There was a waning crescent moon in the sky. He’d checked.

Life, in Bucky’s opinion, just wasn’t meant to be this quiet. It left too much space for Bucky’s brain to dance and move, erratic and unpredictable. He gave it until he started to feel like he was living in a prison of his own creation before he got up out of bed, pulling a robe on over his pajamas and tucking the first book his fingers touched inside of it.

In the hall, the bathroom light glowed like the distant beacon of a lighthouse. He followed it and slipped inside. He figured he’d curl up in a stall and read until his eyes got too tired to stay awake. The only problem with that plan seemed to be the fact that the bathroom was already occupied. In the slit of space beneath one of the stalls, he could see two socked feet tucked into worn slippers.

“Is somebody in here?” Bucky asked. Stupid question. Of course there was somebody in there, unless he was about to meet a particularly modest ghost. Granted, the large stone dormitory bathroom at St. Paul’s did look like the sort of place to be haunted, even if it was only a few decades old.

“Ah, jeez,” the boy in the stall hissed, and Bucky’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry Father, I’m just-”

“I ain’t no Father, pal, won’t be for another six years at least,” Bucky said softly. The door unlatched and creaked open. And of course it would be _him_.

There was a reason Bucky chose to pursue priesthood, and that reason was all right there in front of him, small and blond and hunkered fully-clothed over a toilet, sketching on a blank page that looked to be ripped from the back of a school text. Of course, Steve Rogers himselfwasn’t the reason Bucky had fallen into the arms of the diocese, especially given that he’d never even met him before St. Paul’s. Rogers was, however, representative.

The real reason had come in all of those years since puberty where people talked about Bucky’s future, about how a charmer like him was going to end up with a looker of a wife and a house full of children. The big issue with that vision for him was that Bucky had never wanted a wife, not even once, not even as a passing fancy. But guys who looked like Steve, he’d wanted plenty of them. The way he saw it, there was only one way to get out of constantly having to explain why he wasn’t inching steadily toward settling down. So Bucky chose the one path for his life where settling down was expressly forbidden.

“Do you- there’s more stalls,” Steve said, and Bucky knew he should turn and walk out. The right priest would tell him this was temptation, the devil dangling sin in front of him so that he’d walk right off the path of righteousness. But Bucky couldn’t help himself. Sometimes, he figured, the devil just won a round or two. Didn’t mean he won the match, right?

“What are you working on?” Bucky asked, bending over to glance at the drawing. Steve’s unusually large hands covered it completely, guarding it like a secret.

“What’s it to you?”

“Just curious, Rogers, calm down.”

“Curiosity is the path to sin, Barnes,” Steve said, eyes twinkling.

“That’s a terrible impression of Father Lindsey.”

“Oh yeah? Let’s hear you do better.”

Bucky cleared his throat.

“Temptation is like a shadow. You can find her around every corner, lads,” Bucky said, forcing his voice so low that it scratched in the back of his throat. He coughed once, and Steve snorted.

“Not bad.”

“You gonna show me?” Bucky nodded at the paper sticking out from under Steve’s palms. Steve glanced down at his hands.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Steve asked without moving them aside. His eyes flicked down to Bucky’s feet and back up.

“It’s too quiet here.”

“I know,” Steve breathed, and of course he did. He’d climbed on and off that same bus with Bucky less than a week ago. He couldn’t remember seeing Steve at mass, but Steve told him that first day that he’d seen him around, sitting with all his sisters. They were both boys from the city adjusting to the quiet life. “Can’t believe I miss the sound of Mr. and Mrs. Rybarcyzk arguing,” Steve continued, “but I do.”

“It was the Martinellis in our building. Sometimes Mr. Everett across the street would read something in the news and start a tirade about it out on the corner. Didn’t matter what time it was. Whenever he finished getting his thoughts together, he had to shout the whole neighborhood down.”

“If you want, I’ll stand outside of your door and yell about FDR,” Steve said.

“That’d be r-”

“Gentlemen, I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Bucky jumped back from the stall and clasped his hands in front of him, looking wide-eyed into the weathered face of Father Gallagher. It was that moment that Bucky’s hastily-grabbed book fell from his robe onto the floor with a loud plop. Bucky cringed and glanced down at it— _On the Freedom of the Will and on the Bondage of the Will_. Solid choice.

“Mr. Barnes, Mr. Rogers, I trust you both know the way back to your rooms.”

“Yes, Father,” Bucky said, Steve’s voice nearly overlapping his. Steve rushed out of the stall first, nearly jogging out into the hall, and Bucky followed at a brisk pace. One glance behind him told him Father Gallagher was watching to be sure they went.

“Night,” Steve whispered, rounding the corner for the hallway where his own room lied, and in the dim light, Bucky watched the paper Steve had been drawing on flutter from his hands and drift to the floor. Steve didn’t notice, already several yards away.

Quickly, without thinking, Bucky snatched it up and kept walking. He’d find a way to give it back to him tomorrow, and he had to think it was better he had it than one of the priests unless Steve happened to have drawn the last supper.

Back in his room, it killed Bucky that he couldn’t look at it. All he wanted to do was turn on his light and take a peek, but he was already in hot water after being caught out of bed. It would just have to wait until morning. He stuffed the drawing inside of his book and forced himself to lay down.

When the golden light of morning woke him, it took his brain a good minute to remember the sketch. He quickly rolled out of bed and pulled it from inside the book cover.

 _Oh_.

Bucky’s lungs stuttered to a halt. He swallowed thickly, his tongue feeling abnormally heavy in his mouth.

The drawing was lewd. There was no other word for it. Bucky’s own face stared up at him, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Steve had drawn him in the shirt and tie they were required to wear to classes, but the tie was undone, a few buttons on the shirt open. Pencil Bucky’s left hand held the button-down to the side, showing off the lines and shadows of his neck and collarbone. It got worse (better?) from there, his other hand disappearing down his unfinished black slacks. What that hand was meant to be doing—Bucky could only really draw one conclusion. In his pajama pants, Bucky could feel his body starting to stir in reaction.

Elsewhere, the first morning bell began to clang. Bucky would be expected to join the others for a quick breakfast before they went out to tend to the milking cows. In the hallway, he could already hear several footsteps shuffling about. But Bucky didn’t move, his feet planted on the stones in front of his desk, the drawing held in a now-trembling hand.

He wanted to touch himself. He wanted to touch himself thinking about Steve touching himself. He wanted to touch himself while Steve watched. He wanted Steve to-

A boy inching too close to his window on his way across the yard made Bucky snap out of it. Afraid someone might glance in at see it, Bucky hastily shoved the artwork into the center of his Bible, slamming it shut and stepping back like it might burn him.

At breakfast, Steve sat across from him and two chairs down. Bucky spared one look at him, Steve’s pale fist white-knuckling his fork while he ate his eggs. Bucky couldn’t look at him again after that.

* * *

Father Gallagher asked to see Steve later in the afternoon. It was almost a relief being asked to step into his office. All night and all day, Steve had been waiting for the other shoe to drop—waiting to be told to pack his bags. Would they even provide a bus for him to get back to the city if they kicked him out? Or would he have to hitch his way back to Brooklyn.

He stepped into the small stone room and stood in front of an austere wooden desk not that much fancier than the ones in the dorm rooms. Steve clasped his hands in front of him, his palms damp where they pressed together.

He could feel it, the future he thought he’d secured slipping away. The Church had seemed like the perfect choice for him. He was a poor, sickly orphan from Brooklyn. That made manual labor a challenge, and he couldn’t afford the higher education that might allow him something less physical.

All around him, the world said people like him didn’t belong, that they were a drain on society, that they were a mistake. Father McKinney said God didn’t make mistakes. By the time Steve chose to pursue priesthood, it seemed natural. He’d have a home, a job that had meaning, and wherever his ma was, he had to figure she’d be proud of him.

But he’d never figured on James you-fellas-can-call-me-Bucky Barnes. He had a face like a movie star, a face Steve felt a physical need to draw. And he had drawn it, that was the problem. He had drawn it and gone so far beyond drawing it that there was no way to mistake what he’d done as something innocent. It had been bad enough nearly having Bucky catch him in the act. Then he’d gone and lost the drawing. No matter who found it, there would be no question who had penned it.

“I’ve already spoken with Mr. Barnes,” Gallagher began, and Mother Mary and Joseph. Did Barnes know then? Had Gallagher informed him that Steve wasn’t right, that he had lust in his heart for him. _Oh God,_ had Father Gallagher come to think that the previous night had been some clandestine meeting? Was Steve going to accidentally get Bucky booted from St. Paul’s as well?

“Yes, Father,” Steve choked out, hopelessly lost on anything more to say. It was bad enough to ruin his own life, but to ruin someone else’s? He would never forgive himself.

“I will tell you the very same thing I told him. The rules at St. Paul’s are not the word of God, Mr. Rogers, but they are also not suggestions. Let us try to stay in bed during the night, yes?”

“You have to know that-” Steve blinked several times. Like flour through a sifter, the thoughts slowly made their way through the processing centers of his brain. “You have to know that I’m deeply sorry, Father. It’s been a little tough adjusting to the quiet life out here at St. Paul’s. I-” Steve inhaled, then exhaled. “I’ll pray about it.”

Father Gallagher nodded, satisfied with that answer.

“Then good afternoon, Mr. Rogers.”

Steve made it halfway down the hallway back toward the classrooms before he had to lean against the wall and take several breaths. If Gallagher didn’t have the drawing, then that left two distinct possibilities.

The first possibility was that it had fluttered to the floor without anyone noticing, that it stayed there until it was picked up by either priest on overnight duty or another boy on his way to the bathroom.

The second possibility was- Steve sank to the floor, his breaths growing more and more labored by the second. One fist clenched at the leg of his robes, his knuckles going from pale peach to ghostly white. Suffocating—that’s what he was doing—he was suffocating on the very real likelihood that Bucky had the drawing.

Lungs too full of depleted air, Steve had to breathe it out. He just needed a second to remember exactly how.

“Hey.”

Steve met blue-gray eyes with a quiet wheeze. Bucky reached out and squeezed Steve’s bicep, his hand running down the length of Steve’s arm to gently grip his wrist, shifting Steve’s hand across the space between them. With the entire weight of St. Paul’s stone edifice on his chest, Steve felt Bucky’s own much lighter chest beneath his palm. Rising and falling delicately like a feather on calm seas.

“Easy,” Bucky said. “Just try to match up, okay?”

It could’ve been several minutes or several hours before Steve’s head fell back against the stone, his lungs finally functioning normally, or their version of it anyway. Bucky let go of his wrist, but Steve let it linger on a few seconds more, his fingers splayed across the starched fabric of Bucky’s shirt and the smooth silkiness of his tie.

Steve met Bucky’s eyes and saw knowing within them. The air seemed to vibrate with it, the great and terrible feeling that someone at St. Paul’s knew exactly what Steve was. His head and lungs much clearer, Steve had one thought:

Why would a man who knew who Steve was and what he really, truly wanted let him touch him like this? Unless…

The scuffle of not-so-distant footsteps saw Steve dropping his hand. Bucky scrambled backwards and to his feet, his breathing noticeably less even than it had been through Steve’s attack.

“I’ll see you, Steve,” he said quietly, and then he was gone.

“Weird place to sit, Rogers,” Edwin Kennedy said, strolling around the corner with several books tucked under his arm.

“Yeah,” Steve said, shakily getting to his feet. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

* * *

It was nighttime again, and the darkness was oppressive. Bucky hadn’t gone three seconds throughout the day without thinking of the drawing he’d hidden away. Then he’d found Steve there in the hallway. He’d seen asthma before. A little girl in his building back home had it, and her ma had just about taught everyone who lived there how to handle her during an attack.

So Bucky had taken Steve’s hand and put it on his chest, had pushed aside any thoughts that weren’t about being an anchor point, and breathed steady all the way through it.

After though—Steve’s fingers lingering on his chest, his striking blue eyes boring into Bucky’s—it made everything so much worse.

And so it was after lights out again, and Bucky was wide awake for reasons beyond the usual dark-quiet. He was also hard within his pajama pants, his cock tenting the fabric, the shape of which he could barely make out in the dark.

It was a sin to give into lust. Bucky had never wanted to sin so badly. He imagined himself in the Garden of Eden, the serpent curling around his ankles, hissing at him to give in, give in, give in. He imagined himself in the desert, Lucifer coming to tempt him one final time. If he was Christ, he would resist it.

But Bucky wasn’t Christ. He was just a man, a man in a long line of men dating back to that original sin. A man whose willpower was finite, especially in the face of cute skinny blonds like Steve Rogers.

Bucky’s palm scraped across his lower abdomen, fingertips pushing beneath the waistband of his pants. He closed his eyes and imagined being the Bucky in Steve’s drawing, doing this for Steve’s eyes alone. In this other version of reality where men could lie with men without consequences and Bucky had never chosen to run from who he was, he would fulfill Steve’s every fantasy. Then they’d make up new ones together and fulfill those too.

In the true version of reality, however, he could at least indulge himself. For the first time since he decided on the path toward priesthood, Bucky wrapped his fingers and hand around himself. That first jerk down his length after so long nearly did him in, and he had to choke back a sound. He pushed the heel of his other hand against his teeth and breathed hard against his skin.

It was just like riding a bicycle, touching himself. He found a rhythm quickly, hand running up and down his length. If he squinted, he could make out the rapid rise and fall of his sheets. There was no elegance to it, no long systematic teasing of himself like he used to do sometimes when he’d tweak his nipples and close his eyes and pretend it was Michael Weiss or Fredrik Nilsson from around the corner.

He bit the flesh of his palm when he came, panic setting in almost immediately. Laundry was a chore shared by everyone at St. Paul’s, and Bucky’s next round of laundry duty was several weeks away. If anyone noticed the stains in his underwear… And how could they not?

With a wave of anxiety, Bucky scrambled out of bed and threw his robe on over his night clothes. He made for the bathroom quickly, relieved to find it empty.

He was halfway through scrubbing come out of his underwear and pants when Steve Rogers strolled in. He froze in the doorway, eyes flitting between Bucky and the clothing in the sink. Finally, they flicked down to Bucky’s calves—bare beneath his robe.

“Oh,” Steve said softly.

Bucky could lie. He could say any number of embarrassing things about an upset stomach or too much water or-

But he hadn’t sated his temptation, not really. The devil stayed perched on his shoulder, whispering in his ear.

“Why’d you draw it?” Bucky hissed. “Why’d you have to go and do that, huh?”

“What happened?” Steve asked, nodding at Bucky’s wet clothes.

“Like you don’t know. It was almost just like your picture.”

Steve blushed immediately, pink creeping down his neck to only God knew where.

Bucky could know where too if he was so inclined. The thought made his heart beat faster, made his soft cock show the first signs of new life. Whatever sense of self-preservation Bucky had left was the only thing that kept him from walking two steps, seizing the front of Steve’s pajama shirt, and sticking his tongue in Steve’s face.

“We can’t do this here,” Bucky said softly, and he turned back to the sink and wrung out his clothes, pushing past Steve to head quickly back to his dorm room before anyone caught him out.

He had to jerk off again before he could even consider sleeping, though he was much more careful the second time around.

* * *

It was by the grace of God, probably, that Steve didn’t know which room at St. Paul’s belonged to Bucky. So he scrubbed his own pants clean—the original reason he’d taken a late night stroll—and went back to bed as Father Gallagher and maybe also the Lord intended.

Sleep though? How was he supposed to do that knowing that somewhere else in the building, Bucky not only had Steve’s drawing of him but had replicated it alone in his bed.

It couldn’t be helped, the way that Steve’s mind ran wild with it. Did Bucky bite his lip just so when he came? Did he pant as pretty as he talked? Did he like to jerk off fast and quick or did he take his time about it, get himself real worked up so that the eventual finish was practically cataclysmic?

That’s what Steve would do to him if he could. He would work him up first, get him good and hot, then get his mouth on him.

“Dammit,” Steve whispered, painfully aware that he had gone and gotten hard all over again. He couldn’t do another trip to scrub his shorts out, but he couldn’t seem to keep his hand from straying downward every few seconds. His need was something deep-seated that wouldn’t leave him alone until he did something about it.

His hand groped along his nightstand for ideas before landing on his Bible. He knew, of course he knew, that this probably crossed the line into sacrilege then did something profoundly lewd to its mother. But it wasn’t like he was going to use the actual word of God. His fingers groped the cover until he could discern front from back, then he turned to the very last pages and ripped out two or three. They would be blank, meant to be used to take notes, but blank nonetheless.

Shoving his fresh pants and sheets out of his way and rucking up his shirt, Steve gripped his cock in his hand and moved it from root to tip. Would Bucky ever even entertain the thought of touching him like this? Would he ever put his beautiful mouth on Steve’s body? Would he let Steve take him, their futures be damned?

His mind threw him a very specific image of Bucky bent over the altar in St. Paul’s tiny chapel, pants and shorts pooled on the floor by his feet. Right there in front of the God who would allegedly condemn them, he and Steve would take each other like the eucharist— _for this is my body which will be given up for you_ —touching and tasting of one another’s skin.

Steve’s fingers itched for pencils and blank pages. They itched for rich charcoals and vibrant colors so that he could go beyond the simple lines of Bucky’s jaw to the blue of his eyes and the rich tan undertones of his skin. He would draw him with the shadow of the cross on his cheek, his body waiting to join with Steve’s. And when that was done, he would start a new work of Bucky’s too-pink mouth engulfing Steve’s cock.

With a startled bitten-back moan, Steve came, catching his orgasm in vellum-thin paper.

For what it was worth, he did quietly pray for forgiveness when he dropped them, sufficiently soiled, into the wastebasket.

* * *

It was a miracle, or maybe the polar opposite, that Steve and Bucky ever found themselves alone together again. Solitude was an everyday occurrence at St. Paul’s, but it was meant for one.

It happened on an otherwise ordinary Thursday. The incident with the drawing had taken place over a week prior, both Steve and Bucky tormented by it in their own ways. Body parts had begun to chafe, dreams had turned distinctly erotic, and glances at each other during mealtimes or classes or study periods had intensified to the point that the entire atmosphere at St. Paul’s felt heavy with their want.

Like ozone heralding the arrival of a thunderstorm, Steve and Bucky could both feel it—an inevitability that seemed unavoidable. They had, both of them, seen their personal Bathshebas and given into the pull of their beauty.

So when Bucky rounded the corner of the hallway by the chapel and found Steve there near the doors, gathering up a few loose papers, something settled within him. Their eyes met, and Bucky’s heart sank slowly—a helium balloon losing its rise—coming to rest somewhere in the confines of Bucky’s stomach instead, heavy as lead.

Steve’s blue eyes flickered toward the chapel doors, and wordlessly, Bucky pulled one open a crack and slipped inside. The lights were off, the room cast in a dim blueish glow from the fading afternoon sun. Behind him, the door creaked quietly on its hinges. Bucky couldn’t bring himself to look back just yet.

There was a gentle plop of books being sat down upon a pew, and Bucky thought that seemed like a good idea, moving to set his own down on the nearest flat surface.

In the quiet stillness that followed, he swore he could hear his own heart beating. The telltale heart, there to let the entire world and God above know just what he planned to do in His house.

A shadow moved beside him, and Bucky turned to find Steve standing to his right, his blond hair picking up what little light there was. Christ, he was handsome. Even more beautiful than the Steve that had plagued his dreams for days. Sometimes in those dreams, they’d just kissed, Steve covering Bucky’s body with his and mouthing at his lips and jaw and neck. Sometimes they’d ridden the wheel at Coney Island and Steve had rested his head on Bucky’s shoulder and no one had cared because they were Bucky’s dreams and not the cruel world that told him he was wrong for wanting who he wanted.

Other dreams though, Steve had jerked him and sucked him and put it in him until Bucky cried with ecstasy. Bucky wanted all of the above. With Steve. With someone else. It didn’t matter.

If Lucifer was tempting them, then he won. Bucky couldn’t fight it. He had become lust and greed and, if he had his way, gluttony too all rolled into one.

With a trembling hand, he reached over and touched Steve’s cheek, thumb brushing across his sharp cheekbone. Steve shuddered out a breath.

“We shouldn’t,” Bucky said.

“I know.”

“But I-”

“Me too, Buck.”

Buck. _Buck_. Bucky’s entire mortal soul was contained in that one syllable floating between Steve’s pretty lips.

Forgive me, some tiny voice whispered in Bucky’s head, and then he tipped his head down and met Steve’s mouth. It tasted like heaven, his lips like holy wine but so much sweeter.

Bucky took them both down into the space between two pews, knocking his arm on a kneeler and shoving it up out of the way. Steve covered him, aligning their waists and moving atop him so that their budding erections rubbed gloriously together.

Blunt nails digging into the back of Steve’s neck, Bucky moaned quietly into the kiss, his other hand pushing on the small of Steve’s back, then on his ass, encouraging him to grind harder and faster.

“Bucky,” Steve whispered, forehead pressed against his. “Bucky, stop.”

But Steve’s hips continued to move frantically, friction building and pooling between them.

“We can’t. Clothes,” Steve said.

His brain low on blood, it took Bucky a second to process that before he grabbed Steve’s hips with both hands, stilling them.

“Can I undress you?” Steve asked breathlessly, moving to kneel between Bucky’s thighs. Panting, Bucky nodded.

Steve reached down and pulled Bucky’s tie loose first, then found one button after the other until he could open Bucky’s white shirt, ripping it out of its tuck in the process. In lieu of shucking off Bucky’s clothes entirely, Steve shoved his undershirt up his body, pausing to admire Bucky in what little light there was. Fingers reverently touched Bucky’s skin, running down his exposed stomach and playing in the smattering of dark hair that led down into his pants.

“My whole life, I’ve never seen anything as gorgeous as you,” Steve said, fingers undoing Bucky’s slacks. Two hands wiggled them and Bucky’s shorts down his hips, exposing his hardened cock and upper thighs to Steve’s gaze. His pretty blue eyes drank Bucky in with a hunger. Steve’s larger hands found Bucky’s cock first, and Bucky almost punched himself in the mouth in an attempt to catch his cry of relief. One lip knocked against his teeth and he tasted the tiniest metallic tang of blood, but it didn’t matter. Steve was finally touching him. _Th_ _e_ Steve. _His_ Steve.

“That good?” Steve asked softly, hand moving expertly along Bucky’s shaft. In the silence of the little chapel, Bucky could hear it, the distinct sound of skin on skin.

With his hand pressed tight against his mouth, Bucky nodded.

Steve smiled and kept jerking him, pulling him off for what felt like an eternity while Bucky panted hot and damp against his own skin. When Steve let go, it was the greatest loss Bucky had ever known. He whimpered against his palm.

“Shh, shh,” Steve stroked his thigh soothingly. “Just wanna try something else.” He walked backwards on his knees, leaning his head down, and Bucky’s breathing kicked up. Guys in the neighborhood back in Brooklyn had always talked about how good it felt to have a mouth on you. They bragged about it when girls they took out let them put it in there, but Bucky had never felt anything outside his own hand (and now Steve’s.)

“Have you ever done this before?” Bucky asked.

“No. Have you?”

Bucky shook his head.

“If it feels real good, you have to let me return the favor, okay?” Bucky said, running his fingers through Steve’s hair.

“That’d be great, Buck,” Steve said, and then he lowered his mouth to Bucky’s cock and slowly took it in. Bucky pressed his forearm over his lips, his entire world rearranging itself around the combo of warm and wet that was Steve’s mouth—the eye of his personal hurricane, the sole point around which Bucky spun and spun and spun.

There was an elegance to it, the rhythmic way that Steve’s head bobbed up and down in the fading light—so dim now that everything was starting to turn shadowy and featureless. But Bucky didn’t need to see the pink of Steve’s lips to feel what they were doing, to feel that soft silky skin stroking him over and over again, Steve’s tongue licking erratically at Bucky’s flesh as he went along.

“St- Steve, I’m gonna,” Bucky whispered, choking out the words while he fought off a deep moan. There was a quiet pop, Steve’s hand temporarily replacing what was lost.

“Go ahead. I’ll swallow it.” Steve’s mouth returned, the pace more frantic this time. One of his hands found Bucky’s balls, rolling them experimentally, and in a chamber full of shadows, Bucky swore he saw the blinding white of heaven. His eyes slammed shut, one hand gripping the edge of the nearby pew, the other a fist shoved between his own teeth.

He came with a quiet whimper, orgasm pulsing into Steve’s mouth. True to his word, Steve swallowed it down. Bucky didn’t feel a single drop escape. No evidence to be found.

The shadow that was Steve sat up and wiped his mouth delicately. Bucky could hear him panting, the sounds of his heavy breaths mingling with the sound of Bucky’s own.

“Stevie, you gotta let me do that for you. You got no idea, pal. No idea.”

Steve shifted up onto a pew, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. He dropped his face into his palms.

“You okay?” Bucky asked.

“Just catching my breath, Buck.”

“Do you need…” Bucky jerked his pants up and scrambled so that he could softly tug one of Steve’s hands away from his chin, moving it onto the bare skin above Bucky’s undershirt. Bucky calmed his own lungs the best that he could after everything Steve just put his body through.

“Oh, not like that,” Steve said with a quiet laugh, but he left his hand there anyway, fingers trailing across Bucky’s skin until he could softly pet at an exposed collarbone. “You really are so beautiful, Bucky.”

“Can’t even see me right now, Stevie, but so are you. I was ruined the second I laid eyes on you and I don’t even care.”

“Careful. A fella could fall in love being sweet talked like that.”

“Then I better keep it up,” Bucky said, groping for Steve’s lips and running a thumb across them. He slipped his hand behind Steve’s neck and pulled his face down for a soft kiss, holding Steve there when they broke apart. “What do ya say, Stevie? Gonna let me suck you? Gonna let me make you feel good?”

Steve tipped forward and kissed him again, this time nipping at Bucky’s plump bottom lip.

“Yeah, Bucky,” he said hoarsely. “Yeah, I am.”

Bucky shifted to move between Steve’s legs where he sat, hands crawling up Steve’s thin thighs to the waistband of his pants. He didn’t waste time trying to be sexy or delicate, instead unwrapping Steve’s erection like a Christmas gift he’d asked for in January and waited patiently for ever since. He regretted not getting Steve into some state of undress much earlier in the evening, the light all gone now. In the formless, black room of the chapel, Bucky felt Steve’s cock with his hand, judging its size on touch alone.

The overlap of his fingers and thumb told him the thickness of it, and it was sizably thick. A slow trail from the presumably blond curls at its base to its tip gave him the impression that Steve had quite a bit of length. With both of these observations combined, Bucky was forced to assume that Steve Rogers had a massive cock, and even though he had never once had anything inside of him (or put anything of his inside of anyone else for that matter), he longed for Steve to breach him with it. Steve would fill him up, sate him the way a good, heavy meal would. He would stretch him and Bucky would remember the way he felt for the rest of his life, he just knew he would.

But for now, getting Steve’s massive erection into his mouth would be enough. Bucky forced his lips wide and engulfed him.

“Christ,” Steve gasped, fingers flying to Bucky’s hair, gripping several strands tightly in his fist. “Oh God.”

Bucky hummed softly around him, feeling Steve’s whole body jolt at the sound. Experimentally, he did it again. Steve’s fingers tightened in his hair. Up and down Steve’s length, he bobbed, his wet lips schk-schking against Steve’s skin. All the while, Steve’s breathing grew heavier and heavier. Bucky wished he could see his face, how it looked when Steve felt nothing but raw pleasure building within him.

Unsure of what else to do, Bucky licked at the hardened flesh on every pass, dipped his tongue into the slit, flicked it up under the flared head. Somewhere along that ridge, Bucky did something incredibly right, because Steve let out three curses in quick succession and demanded that he do it again.

Bucky did, and then he added that same flick into the routine. Bobbing, licking, flicking until Steve started trembling and didn’t stop.

“Bucky,” Steve said, a warning. Bucky groped for one of his hands and squeezed it tight. Permission.

When Steve came, Bucky did the same as Steve had done for him, swallowing it all so that they left no trace of themselves behind. It was salty and bitter, but it was Steve’s. Bucky finished with one soft lick up Steve’s slit and sat back on his heels. He couldn’t see Steve beyond the faintest outline, but he reached out and touched his still-clothed thigh anyhow, caressing it gently.

“Thank you,” Bucky said.

“Thank you too, Buck. That was…”

Bucky dressed himself after that, buttoning and tucking and hopefully tying his tie into a decent knot without a mirror to go by. He eventually heard the rustling of Steve’s clothes as well, then the quiet sound of a zipper moving up its tracks.

They were silent for some time following that. Bucky shifted up onto the pew and sat next to Steve, his left side pressed against Steve’s right. In the lingering and comfortable quiet, Steve’s fingers found Bucky’s, sliding between them and weaving their hands together.

“We’re going to have to leave, aren’t we?” Steve asked, head leaning over onto Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky considered that, stroking his thumb over Steve’s knuckles. He supposed in the same way he’d already made his mind up about letting Steve have his flesh, he’d also made up his mind about his future at St. Paul’s.

“Yeah, Steve, I think we are,” Bucky said. “It’ll be okay though. We’ll get a place together, somewhere in Brooklyn. Even if this thing between us doesn’t work out, we’ll take care of each other, keep each other safe.”

Steve’s hand shook where it joined with his.

“You don’t have to- This is my fault. I can get by on my own.”

“Steve,” Bucky said, squeezing tight. “First of all, I wanted you just as bad as you wanted me, pal. I could’ve walked away. You didn’t force my hand. As for that other bit, you’re smarter than all the other fellas here and anybody needing an artist would be a fool not to take you on. I know you can get by without me. But the thing is, Stevie, I don’t know anymore if I could get by without you.”

* * *

“So they had sex in the chapel and then left school without telling anyone why? How do people know about it then?”

“Probably because one of them eventually did tell someone, jackass.”

“Well, what happened to them then?”

“They were roommates in Brooklyn, fell in love, said their own vows to each other with God as their witness, and then went off and died together in World War II.”

“ _What?_ ”

“No, no, do not listen to him. See in the version I heard, the _right_ version, they both came home from the war. One of them lost an arm or something and the other went mostly deaf from all the gunfire and shit. But they’re still alive and are like one thousand years old and married for real now.”

“That’s dumb.”

“You’re dumb and your version is stupid and sad.”

“I think I like the one where they’re old.”

“Finally, someone with some taste around here.”

Elsewhere in the world, in a semi-decent apartment in Brooklyn, Bucky Barnes put his tired old feet up into Steve Rogers’ lap on their couch. When Steve looked his way, he smiled and signed “I love you,” plus the special name sign he’d made up for ‘Stevie,’ an 'S' followed by a one-handed mimicry of a man drawing.

“I love you too, Buck,” Steve said, his voice a little louder than most, but still the sweetest sound Bucky had ever known.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/BiStarBucky/status/1153539254603124736) where I say "honestly" a lot apparently.


End file.
